


An Assortment of Scales

by spirallings



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Child Neglect, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Premeditated Assault, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 01:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6217465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirallings/pseuds/spirallings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The queen is dead. The mind of a king deteriorates and his children are forced to bear the burden of a life where their father's love is potentially lost. A promise on a death bed was inferred; to never marry again until one more beautiful is found. The king's children grow and he soon intends on fulfilling that promise in the most distorted, unholy way.</p><p>To protect himself and his sister, the king's son bears the skin of a thousand beasts and runs, runs as far as he can, to where he and his sister can never be found again. Where their father can never find them.</p><p>The king is dead, and a new king takes to the throne, a young king with a heavy heart, many scars, and the bearer of the West's best kept secret. In the young king's woods, a boy in tatters is found with his sister.</p><p>A retelling of the fairy tale, "Donkeyskin" and "A Thousand Kinds of Fur."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The land of Lunares was a prosperous kingdom and under its rule was the old, proud family line of the Pitchiners, dedicated to Mani, the spirit of the moon and all-father god. They were pious, strong, brave and just, and so they ruled for many generations and more to come.

 

The name of the king was Kozmotis, his wife and queen, the Lady Pitchiner and his three children. 

 

The first was a young girl of dark hair who loved to ride her horse through the woods that lined the outside of their palace without a saddle, slept amongst fields of wild flowers, and took to the sword as easily as her mother. She possessed the same shadowy wisps of hair as her father and he adored her; a princess by the name of Emily Jane. 

 

The second was a boy with the chestnut shades of brown that adorned the head of his mother, whom he loved and who loved him, brown eyes always a-sparkle with mischief and fun, born in the coldest of the winter months and named Jackson.

 

The last was another little girl, the little rabbit of the family, a girl by the name of Emmalyn, eyes of amber and the same shade of chestnut hair as her mother and her brother. 

 

The oldest princess was to be heir to the throne, and though she loved her brother and sister, she was often busy. The two youngest were as thick as thieves. Jackson being many years older in age than Emmalyn mattered not to him.

 

Emily Jane may roll her bright green eyes at his antics, his habit of terrifying the nobles when they came to visit with pranks, among others, but Jackson knew there was a smile beneath her veneer of stoutness. Jackson made it his duty to make his sisters laugh and smile when Emily Jane felt overwhelmed by the responsibilities laid before her as heir or when Emmalyn felt out of place as a royal and the youngest child, it didn’t matter; he always wanted to make them smile.

 

His father would sigh when Jackson trotted into the castle, believing himself stealthy, tracking mud onto the marble floors with Emmalyn trailing behind him. 

 

Kozmotis cut an intimidating figure; tall, lean, dark-haired and pale with brown eyes that were compiled with years of knowledge and experiences Jackson and his siblings were too young to comprehend, and so Jackson would duck his head with an embarrassed flush at his father’s quiet but firm scolding.

 

The pair of father and son could not be more dissimilar, but Kozmotis loved all of his children and so Jackson was loved. The little upturn of Kozmotis’ mouth was small but abundant with warmth and care, perhaps even a bit of amusement and pride when a six year old Jackson tugged at a startled, particularly unpleasant nobleman’s overcoat, and to see that smile of his father’s filled Jackson with pride and feelings of love and affection for his father, which were returned.

 

Jackson had want for nothing.

 

He was a prince, he lived a life of luxury with servants to attend his every whim, servants to play with and nobles to play tricks on, everything he could want would be in his hands. Most of all, he had his family, a family who loved him and Jackson loved his sisters, his mother, and his father. How could he want for anything more?

 

When the Pitchiner family fell apart at the seams, he was eleven.

 

Kozmotis was away from the castle on a trip of diplomacy with a neighboring kingdom beyond the mountains, visiting a mighty king and his young child in hopes of forming an alliance between the two lands. The kingdoms were growing uneasy with the presence of a more vicious rabble from the west, and the two kings found it best to have a friendly face nearby in case uneasiness gave way to war. 

 

Lady Pitchiner rolled her eyes at her husband’s worry at leaving his wife alone and nipped at his nose, much to his embarrassment; they would be all right without him for a week or two, the kingdom would not fall apart without his presence. He’d given his quiet little smile and kissed her on the corner of her mouth, telling her he’d be back soon.

 

She laughed at how he flushed at Jackson’s disgusted noises and faces at their mutual affection.

 

The Lady Pitchiner was tucking her youngest daughter into bed, and left Emmalyn’s room with a tender smile on her lips as Jackson stayed behind to tell his sister stories to help her sleep, hands animated and waving about as he jumped across the room. Emmalyn giggled and Lady Pitchiner shook her head with fondness, closing the door behind her. She walked down the hall to Emily Jane’s chambers, wanting to check on her eldest to see if she was asleep, only to find her not in her room. Lady Pitchiner sighed and shook her head.

 

“That girl is just like her father, really... always off on her horse..” she murmured, closing the door behind her.

 

The moon was bright and its lights beamed through the open window in Emily Jane’s bedroom.

 

Lady Pitchiner closed her daughter’s window and coughed harshly into her hand.

 

The smell of iron lingered on her fingers.

 

For every light, there was a shadow.

 

On an island with sharp mountain peaks always coated with snow, the King Pitchiner gave a polite smile and shook hands with a prince with calluses, a prince with nervous but calculating green eyes that spoke of intelligence beyond his years. The prince had grown up so much since he’d last seen him, but compared to his peers he was so small and nimble, so weak.

 

Kozmotis wondered if this boy, the same age as his own son, would survive into adulthood in a land plagued by dragons that burned down their village time after time. He wondered if this boy could rule a kingdom as well as his father, and he could see that the King shared his reservations.

 

King Kozmotis invited the King of Berk to visit Lunares and to bring his son with him. This little prince and Jackson had met when they were small children, but he doubted they remembered each other.

 

The shadows of the queen’s death, the loneliness of having to raise a child on his own whilst fighting dragons and ruling a kingdom at the same time was written on the King’s face and in the grey strands of his beard. It showed in the young prince’s eyes, the shadows under the rich green thick and dark.

 

Perhaps his son could become a friend to this lonely prince and bright light to a family cursed by shadows and darkness.

 

How could he have known that the shadows had crept into his home, latching onto his family and infecting his beloved wife?

 

When he returned home, his son rushed through the gates and the doors, grabbed onto the front of his robes, his brown eyes bloodshot and reddened from tears.

 

“Mother--! It’s mother--! She’s--!” He’d cried, unable to finish as he sobbed.

 

The shadows crawled through his ears and his mouth, settling around his heart, and dug their claws into his flesh.

 

She’d kept it a secret for too long. She hadn’t even realized that it’d progressed so rapidly, that her lingering around the outer villages aggravated it, speaking with their residents to see where she could best help her subjects and improve their livelihoods. Children had been dying from the same disease and she wanted to help them. She would never blame it on the villagers, it was only the deteriorating environment of the land they lived in, one she’d hoped to improve.

 

She never meant to frighten her children.

 

She hadn’t heard Emmalyn’s screams when she collapsed while putting her children to bed and didn’t wake up right away. She didn’t hear Emily Jane’s shouts for the nurse, her voice cracking and her bare feet nearly tripping over the marble floors. She hadn’t heard Jackson’s desperate pleads for her to wake up, nor had she felt him hoisting her onto a bed.

 

Lady Pitchiner smiled and she placed her other hand over her husband’s shaking ones, grasping onto hers with a tighter hold than she could’ve imagined. Her laugh was wispy.

 

“How pathetic,” she said. “To be defeated by my own body.”

 

She’d always hoped that when she passed, it would be on the battlefield with a sword in her hand after protecting her kingdom, her people, and her family. If not valiantly in battle, then in her old age with grandchildren running about the palace, both of her daughters beautiful in their middle age and happily married, Jackson handsome and kindhearted and being the most wonderful father he could ever be. When she passed, she wanted to do so with her husband by her side, asleep in her bed.

 

Kozmotis squeezed her hand tighter, his voice shuddering and choked.

 

Her smile wavered and she reached out her hand to trace her fingertips along her husband’s sharp cheekbones. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It appears I’ll be leaving this world before you.”

 

His hands shook. “No, you won’t. You will not be leaving us. You’re going to stay right here where you belong, with all of us.”

 

Closing her tired eyes, she sighed.

 

She took one of her husband’s hands and brought it to her lips, kissing his palm with pale lips.

 

“Be them for me, Kozmotis. Please. They will need you more than ever,” she breathed into the skin of his palm. She smiled against it and felt the back of her eyes sting as her husband’s shoulders shook. “Please tell me you’ll be there for them.”

 

The King’s eyes were reddened and he brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. Her skin was cold. They used to feel like flames against his lips. “Of course,” he said. “Of course I will.”

 

Lady Pitchiner smiled and squeezed his hand. She felt salt water well in the corners of her eyes. “And tell me that you’ll find happiness again.”

 

Kozmotis looked at his wife sharply. “ ** _Never,_** ” he breathed. “How could you even think that I would? I would never.”

 

Rolling her eyes at her husband’s stubbornness, something their son had inherited much to her frustration, was a painful endeavor. She did so anyway. “Don’t be childish, Kozmotis,” she chided. “Our children will find happiness someday, and I do not want you to wallow in loneliness as our children grow older.” She smiled and kissed his fingertips. “You ought to be happy, too. And perhaps you’ll find yourself someone far greater than I.”

 

“There will never be someone greater than you,” Kozmotis said, “Much less anyone as beautiful.”

 

Lady Pitchiner snorted and shook her head; Jackson truly did inherit his father’s childish stubbornness. He was going to be a hellion when he was older, and he was already a menace (one loved by the castle staff, but a menace nevertheless); she wished Kozmotis luck with him.

 

He’d mentioned the quiet but intelligent prince of Berk... Perhaps a friend would reign in her child some, bring him back to the earth where they needed him.

 

She hoped they enjoyed each other’s company.

 

She hoped the little prince of that island kingdom could give her lonely friend in his time of need.

 

“Then will you marry again once you meet someone as beautiful as I?” She teased, her little laugh choking into a wet cough.

 

“Only then,” the King promised.

 

“Only then, it shall be,” Lady Pitchiner said, a smile playing on her lips at his ridiculousness.

 

Kozmotis held his wife tight to him as she began to cough more violently, her handkerchief stained a dark red, dotting the blanket she laid under. He never left her side and his children curled up against her bedside, sleeping with their shoulders pressed together and their eyes swollen red.

 

The sky was gray and the crows cawed as the Queen of Lunares’ pyre burned, her smoke billowing towards the emerging moon to be welcomed by his open arms.

 

Kozmotis held his children close to his sides, his eyes reddened and dry as he rubbed their sobbing, shaking shoulders. His eldest, Emily Jane, stared into the fire and he heard her sniff harshly, biting her lower lip. Neither looked away from the bright orange and red flames.

 

The shadows made their home deep within his flesh and in his heart, gradually becoming hard around its edges from their claws digging into it, a slow, dripping poison.

 

King Kozmotis never forgot his promise to his wife.

 

_I will not marry again unless I meet one as beautiful as you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YUP, ANOTHER ONE.
> 
> to be fair, though, this has been in my drafts for a while and was a story i started sometime last year. while struggling with some writer's block and editing for the new chapter of my other behemoth of a fic, i took another look at the unfinished prologue of this one and wanted to go back to it. and here we are!
> 
> hopefully, this one won't be quite as long as _North of the Wind, West of the Wilds_ , but.. we'll see...
> 
> some notes: if you don't know this story very well, just be warned; there are some super squicky and possibly triggering elements to this story. as it continues, i'll add more warnings, but for this one, this is the biggy: attempted incest. welcome to the Grimms Fairy tales, baby. just giving ya'll a heads up!
> 
> anyway, happy reading!


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birds of a mournful feather flock together. Jackson is reunited with a familiar face two months after the death of his mother.

There was a boy, once.

 

His mother and father believed that he was too young to remember him, but Jackson did. 

 

He was six and Emmalyn had just been born. All neighboring nobles and royalty came to the little princess’s naming ceremony, even the King and Prince of an island kingdom far to the west. A pile of gifts were placed before the little princess’s crib and Jackson played with his new sister’s fingers, letting her grab his fingertips in her little hands, giggling and gurgling up at him with a happy coo. Emily Jane leaned over the crib, her arms resting on the edges, and saying things to Emmalyn that Jackson couldn’t remember, but she was smiling, her green eyes alight with happiness and a growing love for her little sister.

 

She’d teased him, saying that their new sister was going to be her favorite and that Emmalyn would like her best, and a mischievous grin curled on her lips. Her laugh filled the hall when he protested loudly, like wind chimes between the walls of marble.

 

Mother and Father were so happy, then. Tired but satiated and full of a warm happiness of having brought a new child to love into the world.

 

Jackson loved Emmalyn instantly. To him, no gift given by snobbish nobles that looked down their nose at his sister was worthy of his sister.

 

A hush had fallen over the ballroom as a giant of a king in a fur cloak burst through the doors. Jackson remembered his burning beard, streaked with gray and some white. His blue eyes were crinkled, hard but tired. They were sad.

 

At his side was a tiny boy with thin fingers, auburn hair, and green eyes as deep as the forests beyond Lunares.

 

Two kings bowed to one another and the Bearlike King took the queen’s hands in his, bowed his head and prayed to his gods to bless the queen and her new daughter. Lady Pitchiner thanked him with a warm smile and it was sad, she murmured something about a lost queen that she wished she could’ve known more. The Bearlike King smiled, then gently brought the small boy, hiding behind this cloak, forward.

 

“Go on, son,” he’d said softly. “Say hello.”

 

Jackson peered from behind Kozmotis’ robes, brown eyes looking curiously into nervous green.

 

“You’ve grown, Prince Hinrik,” King Kozmotis smiled, patting the boy’s head gently when he approached the crib.

 

The boy’s ears turned pink and he looked down at the floor, mumbling a thank you to the king. They glanced up to meet Jackson’s once more, holding his gaze.

 

Jackson tilted his head in curiosity at the prince, and the other youth mimicked the action.

 

A soft laugh left the queen and she bowed her head to the young prince, smiling at him warmly.

 

“He’s going to be quite handsome when he’s older, I’m sure,” Lady Pitchiner grinned. It softened. Her voice was quiet, so much so Jackson almost couldn’t hear his mother as she lifted her eyes to the Bearlike King. “You’ve done well raising him.”

 

The Bearlike King smiled but said nothing.

 

The young prince was stirred out of looking at Jackson with unabashed curiosity when his father gave him another little push forward. “Go on, Hinrik,” the Bearlike King said. “Present your gift.”

 

The prince looked at his father, then at the little wrapped bundle in his hands, swallowed and nodded. “Yes, father.”

 

Jackson watched the boy step towards the cradle holding his sister. He unwrapped the gift and held it before Emmalyn’s curious, grabby hands. The young infant princess took the gift in her hands, blinked her wide hazel eyes up at the prince, and gurgled happily.

 

It was a wooden flute.

  
Emmalyn’s peals of laughter echoed through the halls.

 

The little princess played with the flute and blew into it, sharp notes piercing through the ballroom. She shrieked happily and the Prince of Berk smiled.

 

When the Prince of Berk noticed Jackson looking at him so openly with curious brown eyes, leaning over the other side of the crib to stare down at both the flute (there were intricate symbols, knots and creatures carved into the wood), he stepped back with reddened ears.

 

“It’s pretty,” Jackson had said simply. “She loves it.”

 

He smiled and it widened into a grin when the Prince of Berk smiled at him shyly in return.

 

Kozmotis told his son after the naming ceremony was over, that the Prince of Berk’s name was Hinrik. He pondered over the name and the boy with auburn hair and eyes the color of the forest days after, and then forgot him as he played with his new baby sister, indulging in his cherished role as a big brother to Emmalyn.

 

Emmalyn treasured the flute the Prince of Berk gave her at her naming ceremony. While she thought the metal flutes her tutors tried to urge her into using when she adopted the flute as her instrument of choice were pretty, she’d felt no desire to play them. The wooden flute created a sound that no metal flute could, no matter the gold or the silver it was made out of; with all the childish honesty that only a young child could give, Emmalyn told her mother and Jackson that the flute made the sounds of the forest.

 

Lady Pitchiner laughed softly and stroked her youngest daughter’s hair, agreeing with her.

 

Emmalyn loved to play the flute for her mother, father and her siblings.

 

She didn’t play for months after Lady Pitchiner’s death.

 

-

 

Nobles of neighboring kingdoms and lands came to pay their respects to the queen, bowing their heads in sorrow before the tired, shadowed face of King Kozmotis whose replies to their lamentations were quiet and but murmurs.

 

Jackson often doubted their sincerity and he could see, with the tightened twitch of Emily Jane’s jaw and her firm grip on his hand, entwined between her fingers, that his older sister felt the same.

 

How could they express their sorrow for his mother when they barely knew her? How could they possibly know the degree of their loss when they didn’t see how Emmalyn no longer played the flute, how Emily Jane smiled and teased her brother less often, the silence of their grieving father that lasted for weeks. Jackson hated them a little for it.

 

None of them understood.

 

Two months after his mother’s death, the doors to the castle opened and the Bearlike King of Berk stepped through the hall to kneel and bow his head before King Kozmotis. Trailing after the King of Berk, was a spindly little thing with knobbly legs, thin arms and wild auburn hair. The boy was quiet, but he bowed before the grieving king as well.

 

Jackson felt Emmalyn’s tight grip on his robes at the massive size of the King of Berk and how his voice boomed like thunder throughout the throne room.

 

“I am truly sorry, Kozmotis,” the King of Berk said, voice filled with a softness his sheer size would make him seem incapable of. “To lose such a beloved queen and a wife is the greatest loss of all. She was a proud woman, a good mother and ruler, and a mighty warrior. May she ride through the halls of Valhalla.”

 

For the first time in two months, something changed in King Kozmotis’ face. The vacancy of his expression and empty brown eyes faded and something else filled them; Jackson later learned it was a sorrowful empathy.

 

“...Thank you, Stoick,” the king said quietly. Kozmotis stood up from his throne and approached his fellow king, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Your loss is still felt as well. Please rise. There is no need to kneel before me. You are a friend here.”

 

King Stoick of Berk stood and clapped a large hand to the slender king’s shoulder, his mouth a somber line behind his beard, and nodded.

 

The Prince of Berk also stood and he was like a mouse beside the lion of his father. His lips were pursed, but his eyes were crinkled; he hadn’t said anything. Jackson wondered what he was thinking, feeling the stirrings of recognition deep within his gut.

 

Prince Hinrik looked at him, and Jackson recognized those green eyes in an instant.

 

Kozmotis invited the King of Berk and his son to stay in Lunares for the next two weeks, possibly more if Stoick requested it. Hinrik looked hesitant, but the king smiled and accepted the invitation. Berk was quite the journey away from Lunares, nearly two weeks, and the king and his son had to be exhausted. The king brought no servants with him; only his axe, sword, horse, and his son.

 

Jackson wondered what kind of ruler King Stoick was to travel with such confidence and no protection.

 

Power and strength came off of King Stoick in waves. To the other inhabitants of King Kozmotis’ castle, Prince Hinrik was almost invisible, and when he _did_ make his presence known, many were startled, having not realized that he was there. Jackson caught slivers of annoyance and resignation on the fellow prince’s face, though he was quick to disguise it with a neutral expression.

 

Neither prince had approached each other. But Jackson’s sisters grew ever more curious about the quiet Prince of Berk as the sun began to fall and the moon to rise. It was because of Emily Jane that Jackson had his first proper conversation with the Prince that given Emmalyn her beloved flute so many years ago.

 

Politics and talk of ruling was left out of the dining hall, confined to sitting rooms with blazing fires and hushed voices, though Jackson and Emily Jane heard murmurs of dragons and burnt villages above their plates at the long wooden table, filled to the brim with delicious foods; Berk was infamous for its plague of dragons, a battle that’d gone on for centuries and much bad blood remained between dragons and the royal family of Berk. The dragons made neighboring kingdoms wary, reluctant to travel and trade with Berk, and so they were an isolated kingdom forced to make do with what their land had. But all of that talk was discussed between the two kings alone and in relative privacy; Hinrik had said little and stared into his goblet, running his fingers along the rim as he pursed his lips.

 

Whenever any of the older children did hear of the word ‘dragon,’ Hiccup’s jaw tightened. Otherwise, the prince had his face trained into a neutral expression.

 

Had the circumstances not been what they were, it would have been Jackson to approach the prince first and began a conversation. But his usual mirth and unrepentant curiosity had burned away in the pyre until it was but a few stray pieces of wood still alight. He had no interest in talking to the prince.

 

He was grateful to his older sister for pushing him into talking to Hinrik. Gods bless her, he was so grateful.

 

Emily Jane caught Hinrik before he wandered off to his guest room after their fathers departed the dining hall to discuss business, making him near-stumble when she called out to him. “Your name is Hinrik, is it not?” She asked.

 

Pausing, he slowly looked at her. “..Yes,” he said, unsure and cautious.

 

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” She asked, not unkindly. Her hand rested on Jackson’s shoulder and Emmalyn peered at the prince from behind her skirts, using her height over her siblings to advantage. She made them feel protected, safe and secure.

 

The guarded expression on the prince’s face relaxed as he blinked.

 

“Um,” he said, “Yes, I have been. It was a long time ago, though..”

 

Green eyes fell onto brown, and Jackson’s breath hitched at the flickers of recognition and shy, boyish curiosity.

 

Emily Jane didn’t quite smile, but the corners of her mouth turned slightly upward, a short arch of her lips. She parted them to speak, but Jackson spoke before she could.

 

“Emmalyn’s naming ceremony,” Jackson blurted, stepping forward. Emily Jane’s hand fell off of his shoulder and he walked closer to the other prince. “You were there, weren’t you?”

 

Hinrik’s stare moved from Emily Jane to him. “..I was.”

 

His voice was soft, but it was almost nasally; he hadn’t heard it in so long that Jackson had almost forgotten what Prince Hinrik’s voice sounded like. It cracked slightly on the last syllable and Jackson felt a trace of what might have been laughter deep in his chest. The other prince’s voice wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, just... different. Perhaps a good kind of different.

 

“You gave Emmalyn’s that flute, right?”

 

Hinrik’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead, and Jackson noticed for the first time that little freckles dotted Hinrik’s skin. Along his cheeks, his nose, his chin, all the way down his neck to his collarbone. Jackson saw a ghost of a smile on the prince’s lips.

 

“I did.”

 

A little gasp was heard from behind Emily Jane’s skirts and a head of chestnut hair and hazel eyes poked out from behind the older princess.

 

“You gave that to me?” Emmalyn asked, eyes wide with wonder.

 

Prince Hinrik’s lips curved wider into a true smile.

 

“I made it, too.”

 

-

 

Emmalyn adored Hinrik.

 

Jackson supposed that he ought to be jealous of the other prince for capturing his beloved sister’s attention like he had, but he was simply happy to see his sister smiling again. The little princess followed the Berkian prince when he left his guest room and Hinrik entertained Jack’s sister with no sign of reluctance or annoyance. His smiles were kind and warm, small as they were, and whatever questions Emmalyn had, he answered, happy to do so.

 

When Emmalyn asked him how he made her flute, he told her that his father taught him how. Jackson and his siblings learned that the King of Berk had an affection for building little figures, shapes and tools out of wood, a skill he’d then taught his child.

 

Emily Jane’s eyebrows rose in a rare display of surprise, impressed and Jackson felt his interest perk. He knew so little of Berk and its royal family; with its distance, surrounded by mountains on one side, shrouded by the thick wilds and trees that stretched to the skies, the vast sea on the other, much of Berk itself was clouded in mystery. Jackson soon joined his sister in sitting by her side to listen to the prince’s stories of his home, vignettes of a land he’d often wondered about.

 

Emmalyn listened with rapt fascination as Hinrik told her how he made her flute out of branch from an old oak tree he liked to read in, hidden amongst the thick branches and foliage.

 

She’d once asked him to play it.

 

Fingers slightly shaking and unsure, the prince took the flute in his hands, ran the tips over the smooth wood and raised it to his lips. His eyes closed, he inhaled, and blew gently over the mouth-piece of the flute.

 

The notes that came forth were untrained, a nervous waver that pierced through the marble halls of King Pitchiner’s castle, but they whistled and sang as the wilds did as the winds blew through the trees and the bark. The music was ghostly, chills prickling across Jackson’s skin, but he was mesmerized by its unearthly beauty.

 

The song was not a long one. Finishing, the prince lowered the flute and a sheepish smile flit across his lips. His cheeks were a faint pink, tips of his ears a flush red. The redness growing on Hinrik’s skin made his forest green eyes more vibrant and the freckles dotting his skin stand out like the constellations on a clear night sky.

 

His eyes were as pretty as they’d been when they’d first met five years ago.

 

It was a startling thought, one that made his heart leap into his throat and his breath to catch. His stomach felt strangely light, as if a little bird was flapping its wings inside of him, making the skin on his arms tingle; small, but present. It was an odd, strange new sensation to the young prince.

 

Jackson ignored it in lieu of leading the other prince to the lake that belonged to the royal family, Emmalyn in tow, trailing after the auburn-haired prince in the wake of her puppy crush. He did not see his eldest sister’s thoughtful stare as they left the castle.

 

Hinrik was the same age as Jackson, he’d learned. He was an only child, loved to read, draw, and explore the hidden nooks and crannies of the forests that surrounded his home. Sometimes, the prince would look at the sky, a worried expression on his face, his shoulders tense. As if he was waiting for fire to rain down from the sky.

 

Jackson asked him once why he was scared of the skies.

 

“It’s not the sky,” Hinrik said. “It’s just.. well, it’s weird. I keep expecting dragons to come bursting through here at any second.” He smiled, but it was wry and self-deprecating. “It’s so safe here that it’s kind of eerie.”

 

Jackson’s eyes widened, careful not to move his arm from around his sleeping sister’s shoulders. She breathed quietly against his knee and he held her shoulder. “Do they always attack you? Even in broad daylight?”

 

The other prince shook his head. “No, only at night. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one during the day. They only attack at night as far as I can remember. But even though I’m still in a completely different country and it’s daytime, well..” Hinrik shrugged, lightly splashing his bare feet in the water.

 

Hinrik’s father, Stoick the Vast, the King of Berk, was known as the greatest dragon killer Berk had ever known. A rumor still filtered through the mouths of his people and their neighbors that when he was a mere babe, he punched a dragon’s head clean off of its shoulders.

 

Jackson found the story ludicrous but at the stony face of his fellow prince, his chortles quieted.

 

While Jackson thought the story was ridiculous, Hinrik believed it.

 

And Jackson wondered about Hinrik’s relationship with his father, a subject the prince tended to avoid; the respect Hinrik had for King Stoick was obvious, but the awkwardness between father and son was tangible. Even Jackson felt it when the Berkian king and prince sat down with them for dinner, his own father often absent from the table. The pair barely spoke to each other and when they did, the king spoke in a gruff, though not unkind, tone and the prince muttered in dry vowels and consonants.

 

When Emmalyn’s tutors drew her back to her classes, Jackson stood by Hinrik’s side, taking his sister’s place beside him for her and showed him around the castle. He’d brought the other prince to his favorite place; a tall tower with a small room that overlooked the entire kingdom, covered in deep purple and blue curtains. It was a room Jackson retreated to when he wanted a spare moment to himself.

 

He’d been spending a lot of time in it the weeks since his mother’s death.

 

“I’ll kill a dragon one day,” Hinrik said suddenly, perched by the window looking over the woods and the village surrounding the castle. “I’ll do it. I’ve just gotta keep trying, and I’ll be able to do it.”

 

Jackson said nothing, but he squeezed the other prince’s shoulder. Hinrik gave him a small smile.

 

The prince of Berk was awkward, Jackson noticed in his days spent with him; when he was excited or something about Lunares caught his interest, he spoke at a pace so fast that it had even Jackson struggling to keep up, his thoughts coming out in strings of words too quickly for him to catch. When he’d notice what he was doing, he’d flush and stop, his smile disappearing. His hands were nervous, gesturing wildly as he tried to explain to a bright-eyed Emmalyn about life in Berk, and when he gave a rare smile, his front teeth were larger than the rest, making his toothy smiles crooked on his face.

 

When Hinrik spoke of Berk, rarely did he mention possessing any friends close to his heart. Hinrik spoke of no sisters or brothers, and he made no word of his mother.

 

Jackson had not caught onto the silence Hinrik held when Stoick bowed to him and his sisters, apologizing for their deep loss before Emmalyn’s watery hazel eyes and the tight clench of Emily Jane’s jaw, swallowing back the lump in her throat. That first day of the Berkian royal family’s arrival, Jackson could only hold onto his youngest sister’s shoulder firmly and wonder why their father had once again retreated to his study, leaving them alone with the foreign king in their mourning.

 

It was difficult, putting Emmalyn to bed that night. 

 

-

 

It was his turn to help her settle in. He and Emily Jane quietly agreed to alternate between helping their little sister to sleep at night. Their mother had always been the one to ease her youngest to bed when dreams escaped her, but now that she no longer could, nightmares ailed her and she dreaded going to sleep. It took Jackson’s warm voice and silly stories and Emily Jane’s calm green eyes and safe arms to lull her to sleep, though not without difficulty.

 

Tired himself, he yawned and closed the door behind him, only to hear the pad of footsteps just down the hall. Curious, he followed the sound and soon caught up with the fellow prince.

 

Hinrik stalled at the sound of his approaching, and Jackson looked down at the object the other prince was holding in his hands; a small wooden boat and a little box. Neither boy said a word, and Hinrik continued to walk. Jackson walked alongside him. The night was chilly and cool, a soft breeze rustling through the trees, and Jackson came to a stop with Hinrik at the edge of the lake he and his sisters once played in during the summer months.

 

Quiet, he watched Hinrik place the little boat on the surface of the water, tepid waters rippling gently around it, and open the box. Hinrik took a match and lit it. He laid it on the wooden boat, and Jackson saw the smoke begin to billow up from the slowly burning toy, the fire licking its way across the boat.

 

Giving it a small push forward, Hinrik urged the boat to glide along the water. The fire burned bright on the wooden toy, spreading to the sides and Jackson observed its glowing yellow and red flames, beaming on the dark water like the sun.

 

The smoke sought the stars and the clouds above. It pricked at his eyes and Jackson felt them water.

 

Not as strong as the pyre, but Jackson could feel its phantom taste on his tongue. The stench of burning wood and ash hadn’t left the roof of his mouth. He wasn’t sure when it would.

 

Hinrik kneeled at the bank of the lake, his green eyes glimmering from the light of the fire. His hands were clasped in his lap. When it appeared that the other prince had no intention of moving, Jackson sat down next to him.

 

Charred pieces of the boat fell off, and the water steamed with a hiss as they fell into the water.

 

“Why did you do that?” Jackson asked.

 

Hinrik didn’t look away from the fire. “It was for your mother. It’s my way of mourning for her.”

 

Jackson said nothing, but his eyebrows rose high on his forehead.

 

Hinrik glanced at him from the corner of his eye and he gave a faint smile.

 

“That’s how we bury and mourn our dead in Berk; we send the body out to sea on a boat, filled with all of their worldly possessions, be they weapons or anything else of value to them, and then their family would shoot arrows, the tips set on fire, to burn the boat and give them peace. It’s a ritual reserved for the bravest of warriors.”

 

Hinrik looked down at his knees. His voice was quiet. “..Your mother was always very kind to me. I didn’t know her all that well, never got the chance to, but she was a lovely woman.” A soft beat passed. “You must miss her.”

 

Jackson swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Every day.”

 

Green eyes peered at him from underneath messy auburn bangs, eyelashes flicking against the strands as he blinked slowly. He rose a hand, hesitating in the air, before placing it awkwardly upon the other prince’s shoulder. He almost took his hand back at the jolt he felt and the widened, surprised brown eyes, but when Jackson didn’t try to wrench the hand off, he let it stay.

 

Jackson was not used to anyone other than his sisters touching him with such kindness. His father had barely touched him or squeezed his shoulder since his mother had been bedridden.

 

Kozmotis had barely even looked at his only son since her death.

 

(His face was too much like hers.)

 

Jackson stared at his fellow prince for a long held, pregnant pause, and then the lines of his eyes relaxed. He leaned into the touch. He could’ve smiled when the hand rested there, unmoving.

 

“She loved you,” Hinrik said. “As long as you remember her, that will never change.”

 

Jackson laughed, a wet sound that came out of his mouth with a harshness that possessed no mirth in it. “I don’t think I could forget even if I wanted to.” He rubbed at his chest, massaging the sudden ache that’d been present ever since he heard Emmalyn’s screams, finding his sister crouched by his unconscious mother’s side. “Sometimes, I wish I could,” Jackson admitted, voice soft and eyes downcast.

 

Hinrik stared at him.

 

“Maybe.. Maybe it would just make it easier if I could,” Jackson continued, bringing his knees in closer to his chest, feeling a sudden urge to hide the burning of his eyes in them.

 

The water rippled gently on the bank of the lake. The moon shimmered and more pieces of the boat, black and charred, smoking, fell into the water. It grew smaller and smaller.

 

“It doesn’t.”

 

Sniffing, Jackson’s brows furrowed and he turned to gave Hinrik a confused glance. The other prince was staring out on the water, his eyes hooded with an emotion that Jackson couldn’t quite understand.

 

It was sadness, he knew. But it was a sadness that was unfamiliar to him; one that was long-held, deeply woven into the other prince’s heart, one that was resigned to fate itself. One that Jackson had yet to comprehend.

 

He felt the prince’s hand lower from his shoulder to rest in his lap, fiddling with his fingers. “It never gets easier. Forgetting doesn’t help anything,” he smiled. It was grim. “I can’t forget because I have no memories of my mother to pretend as if she’d never existed.”

 

Jackson paused, staring at his fellow prince with widened brown eyes as Hinrik toed the water with his big toe, making the surface ripple at his touch.

 

He’d been too young to understand the turmoil of their far-off neighbor, enclosed by mountains, wild forests and the sea, when not months after the royal child had been born, the Queen of Berk had been whisked away by dragons, never to be seen again. It was said that the prince had nearly been killed along with his mother, that she’d been eaten after being taken between a dragon’s claws, that he was lucky to have lived through the night at all.

 

They’d also said that the boy was lucky to have survived to adolescence.

 

These rumors and words had filtered in one ear and out the other to Jackson, having had no care of the kingdoms that surrounded Lunares; his only memory of Berk was a young prince with wide, kind and shy green eyes and a bear of a king, standing in the halls of the palace on his sister’s naming ceremony.

 

Until now, he’d had no understanding of the tragedy of Haddocks, of the prince left without a mother and a king constantly battling the same monsters who’d killed his wife, who’d almost killed his only child, leaving his kingdom in flames and his people to rebuild their homes over and over again. King Stoick had never remarried.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jackson breathed, guilt forming a lump deep in his chest, his cheeks warming with shame.

 

Hinrik only shrugged. “It’s all right, you didn’t know.” He gave a ghost of a half-smile. “How could you? No one even talks about her at home, anyway. It’s as if she’d never existed at all. So, really, it’s all right.”

 

_It isn’t_ , Jackson thought viciously.

 

Hinrik treated his having no mother, lost to him when he was too young to understand her warmth and love as he would now, as if it were but a comment on the weather. The thought of everyone else pretending as if Lady Pitchiner never existed at all struck horror in Jackson’s heart.

 

“Do you miss her?” Jackson asked softly.

 

Hinrik paused. His green eyes were dull as they looked out on the water. The boat, now nothing but charred, black wood, was sinking into the water. A soft hiss rang out in the moonlit darkness as the water lapped at the burnt boat.

 

“How can you miss someone you’ve never met?” Hinrik said quietly. “I don’t have any memories of her _to_ miss. I don’t remember her voice, her face. I don’t know what she looks like at all. I have no pictures of her. I don’t remember anything about her. So,” he said, rubbing his neck. He wouldn’t look at Jackson. “I guess I don’t miss her.”

 

_He’s lying,_ Jackson knew.

 

It was cruel, the fate of the Haddock family. Jackson could not imagine having grown up without his mother, having no memories of her grin (a silent _Well done_ to the little pranks he pulled on nobles that were rude to her), her laugh that trickled out like the sound of bells in the late morning, and her warm, slender hands on his shoulders as she taught him how to pull back the bow, making sure his hand did not shake as he held the arrow against the taut string.

 

Hinrik had no such memories, and though the prince played the part of nonchalance when it came to the thought of his mother and not knowing anything of her, Jackson could see it; the way the lines around his eyes tightened, the hard line of his mouth, the clench in his jaw, and the shimmer of green that looked watery.

 

Hinrik missed her.

 

He missed her even though he had nothing of her to remember her by.

 

Jackson’s heart was fresh with ache and sorrow, and it was not a wound that would leave easily. But, if he had the choice of memories that caused him both to cry and to smile, or to have no memories of one so dear to him, he would choose the former. Jackson and his sisters were lucky; they would never be able to forget their mother and they would have fond memories to remember her by. Hinrik had no such thing, and King Stoick’s heart was too wounded and tired to ever contemplate remarrying. Jackson could not imagine how much it hurt.

 

Unseeing green eyes blinked when he felt a light weight against his shoulder, and he turned to see Jackson pressing his shoulder against his own. Hinrik stared at him for a long, held beat, and then looked back at the moon’s reflection on the water.

 

“Thank you, Hinrik.”

 

The prince glanced at him from the corner of his eyes and Jackson closed his. He didn’t see the faint pink that’d grown on Hinrik’s ears, and he ignored the patch of warmth forming on his own cheeks.

 

“..Hiccup.”

 

Brown eyes cracked open, blinking in confusion. “Hmm?”

 

Jackson turned, and he saw Hinrik smiling softly, a little crooked and wobbly, as if he was unused to it, but smiling nevertheless.

 

“Hiccup. It’s my nickname, almost everyone calls me that.” He shrugged at the bemused, wide-eyed stare Jackson sent his way. “It’s a long story. But you can call me that, as long as you want to.”

 

Jackson peered at him and, sleepily, he smiled.

 

“Okay. ...Hiccup.”

 

Hiccup’s smile grew and to Jackson, it was like a ray of sunlight beaming through the grey clouds that hugged the mountains. His heart felt lighter, and he smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these chapters are probably going to be much, much shorter than North of the Wind, just a heads up! but yes, here, have some nice build up to the eventual love story of this fic and some puppy love before everything goes horribly wrong :)


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emily Jane cares for a garden, creates an arrangement for the happiness of her siblings and her kingdom's future, and watches something new and sweet bloom between two princes.

Emily Jane began furnishing and tending to a garden after her mother’s death.

 

Born in the wake of spring, colorful buds of flowers slowly spreading their petals to the sun and the dew that dripped off of the soft texture, filling the air with a sweet musk that settled in weary bones. Emily Jane had a particular fondness for things that grew. Her father had a mild fascination with flowers that bloomed only under moonlight, an interest his daughter had taken and grew upon and her mother had given her a rare orchid from lands far to the east for her birthday once. She’d told her how to care for it, how much water it required, the amount of sunlight it fed on, and how to treat it well so that it would live for a long time.

 

The _Phaius flavus_. An orchid with rich yellow petals and a crest of warm red in the middle where it bloomed. It was a lovely flower.

 

She stroked at its petals when she thought of her mother, not willing herself to cry.

 

The orchid sitting in a pot at her windowsill that looked over the lake and horse stables, drinking in the sunlight that filtered through the open drapes of her window, she would sit with a book on flora of the surrounding lands and far away, the sun’s rays her guide on the pages, and she would watch her brother and the Berkian prince sit on its bank. Emmalyn often joined them, settled by her brother’s side and looking up at the other prince from beneath her bangs shyly, a little smile playing on her lips.

 

She watched the trio of newly found friends play and converse, Jackson leading Hinrik around the grounds of the castle with Emmalyn trailing close behind, latching her hand onto the back of Hinrik’s tunic.

 

She’d smile, a wistful curl of her mouth, and then return to her book.

 

Emily Jane wished she could play with them.

 

An empty anxiety filled the halls of the castle with the late queen’s departure; the nobles and court whispered the truth of the King’s reluctance to marry again, murmuring of some absurd promise he’d made to his wife (a promise Emily Jane knew not of but was intrigued to know), and the more empathetic sort declared that it was too soon. The king needed his time to mourn before even contemplating marriage. The king had enough heirs and he had his eldest whom would inherit the throne when the time came. They still wanted him to remarry in hopes of having more heirs and maintaining the long Pitchiner lineage through marriages and more heirs down the ancestral line, but the court was willing to allow the king and his children time to mourn.

 

Emily Jane would not have been the court’s chosen heir, yet she still was.

 

Kozmotis declared Emily Jane as his heir when Jackson was born, much to the shock of the nobles who believed that now that he had a son, he would choose him. A sly, tricky smile played on the King’s lips, interlocking his pale hands with his wife’s, and said that he’d always planned on Emily Jane being his heir from the moment she was born and howled her hungry cries after she’d been cleaned, curled up in her mother’s warm arms.

 

He’d always known, her mother had always known, and Emily Jane grew up with both pride in knowing that her father and her mother deemed her worthy of such a role, and the fear that she would not make either of them proud in the end or come to fail in her role as future queen. Now that her mother was gone, the pressure only grew, as did the time of her childish freedom.

 

She was fourteen and there was already talk of her marriage prospects. Emily Jane knew that she didn’t strictly _need_ to get married in order to be Queen, but it was expected of her to. She was not completely averse to the thought of marriage, but at fourteen, it still felt a little too soon for her and had difficulty imagining herself wed to a faceless prince or princess. She’d been so caught up in taking care of her siblings and trying to reach her father that she’d almost forgotten her duties at heir apparent.

 

While Jackson and Emmalyn spent time with Prince Hinrik, Emily Jane was holed up in the library beside her tutors, being educated on her surrounding royal neighbors, their allies, and any histories of tension between them. She allowed herself only small traces of jealousy and bitterness that she could not join them because she treasured the happy smiles growing on their lips more than her desire for the outside, relaxing by the cool waters of the lake, watching her little sister ask for stories of the far north, where Hinrik hailed from, far more than silly pleasures for herself.

 

Emily Jane remembered the boy; the same age as her brother, shy and awkward as he stepped towards Emmalyn’s crib, Jackson practically standing on his toes to get a better look at the prince, and the love Emmalyn had for the flute she’d been given at her naming ceremony. She hadn’t thought much of him then, just another royal brat they would have to create relations and an alliance with in the future, but his presence now, alongside his father, openly mourning for her mother with more sincerity and heart-fulness than she’d seen from any other foreign royal, had her thinking twice about him.

 

She’d seen his curious, shy glance towards her brother, and the fascination, though more subdued than it’d once been, on Jackson’s, and she wondered.

 

The grass was cool and slightly wet underneath her bare feet. It’d been raining, a gentle shower from the skies, and the blades were a bright, fresh green. The flowers on the little magnolia (planted when Emmalyn had been born) were almost in full bloom. The hellebores (planted for Jackson, when he was born) white-pink petals glowed in the moonlight. She took the flower gently in her palm and sniffed, its sweet scent filtering through her. She lowered it and took a little pouch of seeds out of her dress pocket. 

 

She kneeled and took a little shovel, upturning the moist soil, and dropped the Gladioli seeds into the earth.

 

_For you, Mother._

 

This garden was a gift to Emily Jane when she was born, an abandoned patch of earth in the northernmost part of the castle that no one had touched in years. It was given to her to cultivate when she was old enough to understand that the rain made the roots stronger, the sun gave them food and they bloomed when the earth was no longer cold, and it was a gift she was making use of when she could. 

 

It was a gift most precious to her now that her mother was gone.

 

She’d not yet shared the garden to her brother and sister. They’d not yet seen how the vines coiled over the stone bricks of the walls, the willow tree that drooped over the little pond, leaves brushing against the surface of the water. She would, in time. This was a part of herself that she wanted to keep hidden, stay private and own it for herself; there would be little privacy in her future and she wanted to preserve this as long as she could.

 

But she promised herself that she would let Emmalyn and Jackson see this beauty hidden within their own home, show them the trees and flowers she’d planted for them, and let them smell the legacy of their mother’s love.

 

Perhaps she would one day show Prince Hinrik the garden as well.

 

The prince’s connection to her brother, the bond that was slowly growing between them, was not lost on Emily Jane. She’d seen them leave off into the tower that Jackson made his, his little hideaway he’d made for himself when he wanted those rare times to be alone. Emily Jane herself had only seen glimpses of it before Jackson, embarrassed, shrieked at her to go away and slam the door in the face of her laughter. 

 

Emmalyn was often with them, staring up at the foreign prince with curiosity and a flustered happiness Emily Jane hadn’t seen from her sister in quite a while.

 

The past two months had moved like molasses, and when she saw Jackson smile before the Berkian Prince for the first time, a short laugh escaping him, her breath had hitched in shock.

 

Humming quietly under her breath, she took a pail and sprinkled water over the purple lilacs.

 

The following day, she stood before the doors leading into her father’s study; a room she’d not dared ventured into for months. The handles felt the size of boulders in her palms as she pulled the doors open. The shadows under her father’s eyes were thick, heavy with lack of sleep and his normally bright eyes were dulled. Emily Jane sucked in a small breath, and let the heavy oak door shut behind her. He didn’t look up from his papers, no doubt trade documents with another foreign kingdom, eyes scanning over the script without seeing.

 

Emmalyn and Jackson were showing Hinrik the stables and introducing him to their horses. He’d asked her with a bright gleam in his brown eyes that she’d once thought gone if they could show Hinrik to Azalea, her horse. She’d taken one look at his eager face and said ‘yes.’

 

His smile made her want to cry.

 

Hands clasped behind her back, she stared at the strands of her father’s dark hair, so like her own, on the back of his head. Emily Jane cleared her throat.

 

The crinkle of paper ceased. The king’s chair creaked underneath the shifting of his weight.

 

“What is it, Emily Jane?” her father said, his voice soft. He looked over his shoulder, and his brown eyes were tired.

 

Emily Jane felt a lump in her throat form at the skin that stretched over his fair cheekbones, almost translucent in its paleness. It made him look like a ghost, a phantom of the father he’d once been. Blinking, she remembered her purpose and she straightened. She took a step forward.

 

“Emmalyn and Jackson seem to be getting along well with Prince Hinrik,” she began, her voice soft, but carefully neutral. She wasn’t sure how her father felt about the prince, though he seemed to hold his father, Stoick, in high regard.

 

But he’d always maintained a respectful distance from Berk and its royal family.

 

Even Emily Jane knew not what her father would say to her proposition.

 

Kozmotis blinked, and Emily Jane held back a smile at the flicker of interest she saw flare to life in his pale brown eyes.

 

“Are they?”

 

She nodded and moved her hands to interlace against her abdomen, purposefully pointing her chin out in a proud stance. “Yes, they seem to like him quite a lot.” The corners of her mouth curled upward. “They’re smiling more now.”

 

Kozmotis was quiet, his pale brown boring into her green with an emotion she couldn’t read, and there, for a flicker of a moment, she thought she saw the ghost of a smile once long gone. “I am glad.”

 

A sad curl to his mouth, but one still there. She saw it. She hoped that she could bring it out more.

 

They missed their father.

 

“I am, too,” she said. “And perhaps it’s beneficial for us to have good rapport with Berk, since they are one of our neighbors. It’d be good to be friends with their prince and future king.”

 

Kozmotis rose a thin eyebrow.

 

Emily Jane swallowed, keeping her chin up and holding back the grin of delight threatening to break across her lips.

 

Kozmotis pondered his daughter and the hands of the grandfather clock that stood next to the blaze of the fireplace, crackling with orange spit and warming the cold marble, ticked as audible seconds passed. The king lowered his papers.

 

“How do you propose to grow a relationship with Berk?”

 

Emily Jane rolled the flesh of her bottom lip between her teeth before she answered. “Perhaps Prince Hinrik could spend some summers with us? We do not have to go to Berk, but he could stay here with us in his current room for perhaps a month or two every other year. He could teach us more about the surrounding lands around Berk and his culture, and we could teach him all there is to know about our kingdom. There is a lot we could gain from his being here.”

 

She couldn’t read the expression on her father’s face. She sucked in a quick breath and continued.

 

“It would make Emmalyn and Jackson happy.”

 

She prayed to her mother and Mani that it would be enough to sway her father.

 

The king’s chair groaned against the carpeted floor as it was pushed back. Kozmotis stood, walked away from his desk, and went to the window. The curtains were drawn. The sun was half-obscured by the clouds, but it was warm outside. The Berkian Prince watched as Jackson drew his squirming sister to the bank of the pond, dipping his toes into the water. The little princess splashed her legs into the surface while her brother held her, secure in his arms.

 

The king could not see their faces. He imagined they were happy.

 

His back was to his eldest daughter.

 

“I do not see why we can’t arrange that. I shall ask his father what he thinks, and we shall go from there.” Kozmotis let the curtains fall back in place as he returned to his desk, a sliver of sun shining through the slit gap in the middle. Light flickered on the surface of the water.

 

“Yes, Father,” said Emily Jane. “Thank you.”

 

At her father’s nod, she bowed her head towards him and turned on her heel to leave. She waited until the doors shut behind her with a heavy click, rumbling on the door pane, to smile.

 

\--

 

After three weeks of staying in their home, Hiccup and his father, Stoick, left Lunares.

 

Kozmotis had told Stoick that,if he or his son wanted, they could’ve stayed longer but the Berkian king shook his head with a smile. It was time to go home, he’d said, placing his hand on his son’s shoulder.

 

Hiccup was quiet and did not protest, but the purse of his lips was tight and his eyes were downcast. Green eyes raised to meet warm brown from beneath his auburn-brown bangs.

 

Jackson tightened his arms around the sniffling Emmalyn’s shoulders, patting her head gently to assure his sister that they would see Hiccup again, and hopefully soon. 

 

Jackson hoped they would.

 

The Berkian King tied up the cart to his large horse’s saddle, placed their things onto it, and lifted himself onto his horse. He waited for Hiccup to finish saying his goodbyes to King Kozmotis’ children.

 

Emmalyn latched onto the boy’s side, hugging his waist, and asked him not to go. Her eyes were slightly reddened and her nose was stuffy. She sniffled into his deep brown vest that he always wore. It was a warm, worn but soft fabric.

 

Hiccup’s smile was a little wobbly, but he pat her head and told her that while he had to go now, he was sure that he would be back soon for another visit. He snorted a laugh when, with a ferocity to her tone, Emmalyn told him to promise her.

 

“Well, then I promise that I’ll come back to visit sometime soon,” Hiccup declared with hints of laughter in his voice, embracing the little princess when she squeezed his middle.

 

He’d not spent nearly so much time with the Heir Princess as he had the two youngest Pitchiners, but he graced Emily Jane with a warm smile and respectful nod. The moments they did share with each other was one of respect and quiet knowledge that they were burdened with the duty of leading their countries when they came of age, something Emily Jane’s younger siblings could not yet understand as she did. Even Hiccup, still as young as her brother and for all of the maturity he’d shown her, did not yet fully understand the duties ahead of him, but when he looked at the eldest Princess’s face, slowly losing her childhood fat, he began to see.

 

Hiccup thought she’d make a lovely Queen one day.

 

Emily Jane looked forward to seeing what this prince would become.

 

They did not embrace, but hands were shaken and tidings of good journeys were made. Emily Jane kept her smile to herself when Hiccup turned his attention to the prince, his smile shrinking, but no less tender. Taking her sister’s shoulder between her fingers, she slowly guided Emmalyn back to give the two princes their space.

 

“It’s been fun,” Hiccup began, his voice a soft, hoarse murmur. The corner of his mouth quirked upward, a crooked little smile that spoke more of humor and sincerity than any proper curve could. “I’ve had a lot of fun, being with you and Emmalyn. Thank you for having me.”

 

Jackson shrugged, glancing to the side. His lips twitched into a soft curve. “I’ve had fun, too.” Slowly, brown eyes turned back and looked at the other prince from beneath his bangs. “You should come back soon. I still haven’t gotten to show you everything about Lunares.” His mouth curled into a little grin; the muscles were out of practice on his face, but curled it did. “It’s nice to play with someone that’s not one of my boring sisters.”

 

Hiccup’s laughter was a splash of pond water against a damp shore, refreshing the earth and letting it breathe anew, when Emmalyn huffed and kicked the back of Jackson’s calf for his comment, making him squawk.

 

Watching from the palace doors, Kozmotis’ brows rose high on his forehead at the sound of laughter and his youngest children bickering amongst themselves.

 

“It’s been nice being with you,” Hiccup said warmly once his laughter died down, “And your sisters, too.”

 

“Will you promise to come back and visit?” Jackson pleaded. He reached for the other prince’s hand, squeezing it between his fingers, staring right into the widened, shocked green eyes that so resembled the forest in the spring.

 

His hand wasn’t soft. It was calloused, scarred. Nothing at all like a prince’s hands should feel like.

 

His own skin was smoothed and cool against Hiccup’s. Jackson started at the sheer warmth that bled from Hiccup’s hand into his. His stomach felt light and he could not look away from the prince’s face.

 

Hiccup’s eyes swam with an emotion he was too young to understand and, with a smile warm and tender curling on his lips, he squeezed Jackson’s hands back.

 

“I promise.”

 

It was too late when, as Hiccup released his hand from Jackson’s, that the Prince of Lunares realized that he didn’t want to let it go.

 

His hand felt cold and empty as he watched King Stoick lift his son onto his horse, settled on the back of his saddle. He stood at the entrance to the palace as the horse cantered away, growing smaller and smaller the further it went.

 

Before they disappeared completely, Hiccup looked over his shoulder one last time, his arms strapped around his father’s middle. He unhooked one arm, and gave a final wave of goodbye.

 

The muscles in Jackson’s mouth twitched to life as he smiled, raising his hand to wave back at the prince, hoping that the next time they saw each other would not take another six years.

 

_May the gods bless your safe return, and may they allow you to come back. Please come back._

 

Days after the King and Prince of Berk had left Lunares, Jackson began writing a letter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love emily jane and she needs to be in way, _way_ more fic.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It festers.

From the time he was a very young child, Kozmotis knew that magic lived deep within the land of Lunares. It grew in the soil, settled in the roots of the trees, it breathed in the air and the wind. The magic was everywhere. Sometimes, it whispered to him, made the flowers bloom too early, even in the depths of winter. The magic of Lunares was a tree; spreading its roots throughout the earth and making it thrum with life.

 

He felt Lunares’ magic everywhere.

 

And he felt the moon’s power when it was high in the night, beaming down at him in cloudless darkness.

 

Kozmotis always knew the magic was there. It did not live inside him and he knew it did not live in any of his children. Perhaps it’d been laid dormant for all of these years, yet to be seen, but he saw no magic in any of his children yet.

 

He prayed to Mani and his magic when whispers of war brewed in neighboring lands and kingdoms, hoping it would protect his kingdom and family. He prayed to it when his people murmured of crops going bad, only to regrow anew and healthy. He prayed to it when he and his beloved wife went into battle together, coming out unscathed.

 

And he prayed to it when the love of his life was bedridden, bleeding from the inside out and coughing so harshly he felt it in his own body.

 

The magic did not answer him then.

 

It’d been silent since she’d died.

 

He no longer felt the magic that lived deep within the soils of Lunares and was at a loss at how to find it again. His loss tasted bitter in his mouth and his heart began to fester with anger when the magic did not answer his call to save his wife.

 

He could not call upon the magic of Berk.

 

No, the magic there was wild, untamable; it breathed in the mountains, the fierce tides and the winds strong enough to blow down entire houses. It was a magic that cared none for the humans that lived in its territory, giving life instead to the beasts with fire in their bellies and slit eyes that burned as they flew in the darkness above Berk. The magic of Berk loved its monsters, not its people.

 

Its people didn’t even know that their magic was there and if they didn’t even know, then Kozmotis could not turn to them to help him.

 

Kozmotis thought the magic of Berk was evil.

 

...No, not evil, he corrected himself. The magic of Berk was not evil; the magic there was strong, but it was unstable and dangerous. It would not answer to the pleas of a mortal man.

 

No, he could not use the magic of Berk.

 

He would have to find that magic hidden from him in Lunares. He was not a practitioner himself, though his mother, as she stroked his dark hair under the light of the moon, pondered to herself if he had the capabilities to, the ability to _learn_. Both she and his father died in battle before they could begin lessons for him, before they could find him a tutor.

 

He did not know how to take the magic of Lunares into his hands, but he knew of those who did.

 

There was a grove deep in the forest where the swans, the geese and the songbirds lived, resting their heads for the winter. There was a pond where they swam, drank and ate from. The little grove was always in an eternal winter. Snow touched the ground and icicles hung from the branches. But among those branches grew the most beautiful, colorful flowers Kozmotis had ever seen.

 

In the grove deep in the woods, there lived a witch and a warlock.

 

Nobody knew when they came to the grove that magic had touched but they were a pair that kept to themselves. They were a solitary pair, but they were kind and bestowed little gifts on the kingdom of Lunares when they deemed it so.

 

The song of the birds in the day and night. The winter winds that blew not too coldly. The warm harvests and blooms of the flowers in the autumn and spring.

 

His wife spoke of a young woman with rich brown hair and storm grey eyes that smiled so sweetly. She’d held a seed in her hand and gave it to the queen. She told her to plant it in the garden that was no longer used.

 

The Queen had been startled though curious and went to thank the strange woman, but with a blink of the eye, the young woman was gone. She thought she heard the flutter of wings.

 

The Queen planted the seed in the garden, and from it, the magnolia tree grew.

 

Emily Jane was born months later.

 

Kozmotis heard whispers of the silent man with fair hair and pale skin that glowed white in the moonlight, laughter that sounded of bells on the winter breeze. The companion of the witch, her constant silent friend. They were lovers, it was said, they were married, so it’d been told, and they lived together in the grove that was eternal winter and blooming spring.

 

Together, curled in the warmth of the grove, they created magic.

 

Kozmotis watched the birds.

 

He watched the birds that perched on the high spires of his castle, watching where they went, the colors of their feathers and the health of their plumage. Colors uncommon to Lunares, he watched with intensity, and those that did not travel through Lunares during winter, his eyes followed. He watched and waited for weeks, months.

 

In his study he would sit and watch the birds from his window. Sometimes, Emily Jane would come inside and sit with him to discuss her lessons and plans for the future. She did not speak of the boy often, but when she did, her tone was imploring.

 

“We should send Hinrik a letter of invitation for the summer, shouldn’t we?”

 

Lowering his now cold tea to his other palm, he glanced at his eldest. Kozmotis blinked and remembered the boy and his spindly limbs, the green eyes that always looked at him so nervously.

 

“I suppose we should.”

 

Emily Jane flipped through the notes from her lesson. Kozmotis noted that the corner of her mouth was lifting upward.

 

“Jackson’s been writing to him, you know.”

 

His eyebrows rose and he sat up. Some of the tea dripped over the rim and onto his fingers. “Has he?”

 

Humming, Emily Jane nodded and the curve of her mouth widened. “He has, ever since he left. Hinrik writes back to him quite often, too. It seems they became pretty fast friends during his stay.”

 

Kozmotis’ eyes lowered to the yellow-brown of his tea. He hid his frown in the reflection. “It seems they have, I’m glad for him.” The muscles in his cheeks twitched with a sudden desire to smile. “He hasn’t had many friends outside of you two.”

 

Emily Jane laughed and stood, brushing down the front of her skirts.

 

“No, not really. For all of his trickster habits, Jackson rather seems to be a bit of a shut-in,” she said, rolling her eyes. She was smiling more broadly now. A sight Kozmotis almost forgot she was capable of. “I think Hinrik understands him.”

 

Kozmotis placed the cup on his desk and stared out into the open windows. A slight chill stuck to the window panes, not quite frost, but it was coming soon.

 

“Yes,” he said softly. “He would.”

 

Jackson shouldn’t _have_ to need and befriend someone who understood what it felt like to lose their mother.

 

No, not lose.

 

Have their mother **stolen** from them.

 

It wasn’t fair.

 

Not on Jackson, not on Emmalyn, nor Emily Jane.

 

_This was not fair none of his children should know that pain should need someone who understood who felt that same loss they were too_ ** _young_** _it wasn’t_ ** _FAIR_** _-_ -

 

His grip tightened on handle of the cup. The glass ceramic creaked under his grip.

 

Emily Jane frowned at the change she felt in the air around her father. The muscles in her lower back tensed when she saw a sudden tight clench in his jaw. Her eyes lowered to his knuckles, one hand grasping the arm of his chair, and sucked in a breath at how white they were.

 

His fingers were practically digging into the wood.

 

Cautiously, she took a step forward and raised a hand to his shoulder.

 

“Father?” she murmured.

 

Blinking rapidly, his shoulders jolted under her touch and some of the tea splattered on his desk from the abruptness of his turn.

 

Emily Jane could only stare at the gaunt lines on her father’s face; his cheekbones had always been sharp and angular, ones she’d been proud to inherit from him, but now, they sagged off of his bones. The skin was pale and taut on his cheekbones. He hadn’t been eating as well and months had already passed since Lady Pitchiner’s death. He’d lost much weight since. The shadows under his eyes were heavy.

 

A single whisper echoed in Emily Jane’s mind, one she banished in an instant because she did not like the cold feeling that settled in her stomach at it;

 

_This is not my father. This is a ghost._

 

“Yes?”

 

Blinking, Emily Jane started and looked back into the inquisitive stare of her exhausted looking father. Exhausted, yes, that had to be it.

 

Just exhausted. Still weary in his heart, not helped by his exhaustion and lack of sleep. But not a ghost.

 

She smiled and shook her head.

 

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Her brows furrowed and allowed her smile to soften into something more warm. “...You look tired, Father. You should get some sleep. I can take care of whatever paperwork you need done so you can rest.”

 

If he’d the energy for it, he would’ve smiled at her. “You’re a good child,” he murmured. Shaking his head, he stood. “No, no. You don’t have to do any of this work, I’ll take care of it later. I suppose I’ll just have to take your advice and get some sleep now.”

 

Satisfied and no less relieved, Emily Jane nodded. “All right.” Before she turned on her heel, she paused and lifted herself on her tiptoes to kiss his pale cheek in a light peck.

 

Kozmotis looked down at his eldest daughter and heir in surprise and felt a spark of a long absent warmth coil in his chest.

 

She only smiled and felt a flicker of hope at the life she saw flare to life in his face, little as it was.

 

“Rest well.”

 

Numbly, Kozmotis nodded, and for a moment, felt some of the tight tension inside him dissipate. “I will.”

 

He was stricken when she smiled more broadly at him and none of the baby fat he’d so adored was on her face. It was gone, replaced by sharp angles and cheekbones, so like his. Her hair was longer now, dark as his, but her eyes were as bright as her mother’s in their spring green. She was taller, he noticed. She didn’t need to pull him down so much to kiss his cheek.

 

Kozmotis watched his daughter close the door behind her and wondered where the little girl that tried relentlessly to ride horses too big for her had gone.

 

A chill settled in his stomach as he wondered if all of his children were beginning to grow up without his noticing.

 

\---

 

Jackson shifted slightly on his place in his bed, careful to make sure that he didn’t jostle Emmalyn. He kept his perch of his chin on the crown of her head and he felt her breath on his neck. He turned his head carefully to stare out at the open window, welcoming the coming chill breezing between the panes. He found the light cold welcoming and soothing. It kept his body from being too overheated with his sister pressed against his side.

 

Jackson looked down and smiled.

 

Emmalyn was fast asleep. She looked peaceful. It was a rare sight these days. She was clutching her flute between her fingers.

 

Once her grip loosened, he took it out of her hands with a gentle hold and placed it on his night table, and then laid down. Once he was sure that Emmalyn was secure against him, he glanced at his desk where a nearly finished letter sat. He’d finish it in the morning.

 

Hiccup’s letter was still sitting on his bedside table. He read it aloud to Emmalyn to help her sleep, and then she played a little song on her flute. It helped to lull herself into a light doze that became a deep sleep.

 

Jackson had reread Hiccup’s letter dozens of times since receiving it days ago.

 

There was another attack the night before Hiccup started writing, but he wrote in such a nonchalant tone about what was going on around him that Jackson wondered just how often this happened in Berk. He’d asked Hiccup to describe it more fully, and was mesmerized by the sheer amount of detail the Berkian prince put into his letters. He went even further and drew pictures of the dragons for him and Jackson was awestruck.

 

He shouldn’t have been, but he was. He’d never seen a dragon before. They never flew close to Lunares, and there was a chance he’d never be able to see one at home. He probably shouldn’t _want_ to see a dragon, but... well, he couldn’t help but be curious. Hiccup treated their presence as a mundane, if dangerous, part of his life.

 

Hiccup had been bemused in his letter at Jackson’s unrepentant curiosity about the dragons, but with some sarcasm that Jack could practically hear within the words written in ink, he described it all for him.

 

Jackson loved Hiccup’s drawing of the dragons. They were messy sketches, Hiccup himself said so in his letters, but he loved them all the same; it was obvious that the prince, while an amateur at the skill, possessed quite a bit of talent for the visual arts. It wasn’t a skill often taught to princes meant to be heir, not even Emily Jane was one for drawing (she much preferred the art of gardening and horseback riding), and Jackson didn’t think that the royal family of Berk prided itself on its artistry. They’d always seemed too tough and rugged to Jackson.

 

But Hiccup always _did_ seem uncomfortable with his place as a Berkian prince.

 

He was never explicit about it in his letters nor when he stayed with them.. but through his determination to prove himself to his father and the village as a whole, Jackson saw it. Maybe he didn’t quite understand it yet, but he saw the signs.

 

It.. was saddening. Hiccup feeling out of place in his own home. Jackson didn’t like that. The knowledge just made him want to invite Hiccup back all the more.

 

‘ _At least your father still wants something to do with you, right? He still wants to go fishing, even though he knows you’re not really into it, he still wants to do things with you! That’s a good thing, don’t you think?_ ’

 

The smile fell and Jackson turned his head, resting his cheek on his pillow, think of how his friend had responded in his next letter.

 

‘I _suppose that’s true. It’s nice to know that he still wants something to do with me. It’s just... I wish he wouldn’t look so_ ** _disappointed_** _with me when he sees that I’m not interested in these things. I wish he could look at me with pride, for once. I want to make him proud_.’

 

‘ _At least your father still looks at you_ ,’ Jack had written, and only felt the shame come rushing in once the raven had taken the letter, tied to her claw, and flew far above the canopies of the trees.

 

But it was too late to get her to come back so he could scratch that sentence out. She was already gone, and Hiccup would know within the next few weeks.

 

Jackson didn’t like thinking of his father. It made his chest tighten with want and something bitter that’d crept to the back of his throat. He knew his father didn’t hate him. He knew this. He didn’t hate any of his children.

 

Kozmotis still said hello to his children, he still gave them the barest of smiles when Emily Jane put in the effort to get him to engage with his children, and he pat Emmalyn’s hair when she payed her flute for him, praising her for her quick studies. He still spoke to Jackson and put his hand on his shoulder to reassure him of his presence.

 

But rarely did he look at him.

 

The servants and nobles were already whispering of how much Jackson and Emmalyn looked like their late mother.

 

Emily Jane inherited the narrow, sharp cheeks of her father, his dark hair, flowing against her neck and back in long waves and curls, but he and Emmalyn inherited their mother’s chestnut brown hair, her healthy beige skin and slender body. Some said that Emmalyn would look almost exactly like her mother when she was older.

 

Others said that Jackson had her eyes, her face, and most of all; her smile.

 

Jackson was not deaf to these whispers, to the way people looked at him with some pride and some melancholy, as if they were staring at a ghost and not himself. They did not see him, only a phantom of the woman who’d died before her time, whatever remnants of here that lingered within her own child.

 

Kozmotis saw his wife in his son and could not bear to look at Jackson, who he loved so; it was far too painful.

 

Jackson hated it.

 

He hated that he was a physical reminder of his mother and instead of making his father feel at peace, he only brought him pain and turned him away from his own child. He turned away from not only Jackson, but Emmalyn, who grew tearful when she wondered why Father didn’t stroke her hair anymore, why he spent so much time in his office instead of playing with her. She’d ask her older siblings and they could give her no answers.

 

Emily Jane knew from the beginning.

 

It crept on Jackson as vine grows on an old, abandoned castle tower.

 

Lowering the letter, unfinished, he looked out the window and frowned at his reflection. He tugged a lock of brown hair and clenched it between his fingers. He hated looking so much like his mother, how it made his father unable to look at him, but..

 

Paintings weren’t enough to salvage his mother’s memory. They’d never be enough for him to carry his memories of her with him. Mere objects could not carry her heart and soul; if she had to live on in some way, he was all right with carrying her face in his.

 

As long as a part of her remained with him, Jackson didn’t care.

 

(The servants murmured amongst themselves of how handsome the young prince would become and how beautiful the youngest princess would be. They would look so much like their mother, and the eldest princess was as sublime and handsome as her father.

 

Nobles were already beginning to discuss plans of marrying Jackson off to a neighboring kingdom; talk of marrying Emily Jane had begun years ago, now it was his turn. He would grow up fair of face and finding an eligible princess or prince for the second-born of Lunares would not be difficult.

 

Maybe, perhaps, the son of the widowed king.)

 

_‘Gobber once told me that I look a lot like my mother. I don’t even have a picture or portrait of her to remember her by, I can only trust what he says about her and what she might’ve looked like. He told me that we have the same hair color and that I got my eyes from her, along with my skinny knees. I can’t help but feel like she’d have to be quite pretty to catch my dad’s attention; he just looks at me with disappointment. It’s hard to imagine looking anything at all like her. But you do, although I’m sure that’s not why your father doesn’t look at you._

 

_I think he might just miss her. I’m sure he misses you, too, just as much as you miss him.’_

 

‘ _I hope you’re right_ ,’ he wrote. Jackson reread Hiccup’s letter and smiled warmly at the angular scrawl, angled to show the use of his left hand on the paper, practically flying across the page; he could picture it even now. Hiccup’s dominant hand being his left was a little detail he noticed when the Berkian prince stayed with them.

 

_I hope you come back, soon._

 

The bed creaked and the mattress shifted underneath a moving weight. “Jackson?”

 

Adjusting, he turned to look down.

 

“What is it, Emma?”

 

She rubbed her eye and gripped the end of the blanket, lips pursed. Her eyes were foggy and tired, still mostly asleep. “What’re you doing up?”

 

His eyes closed and he rubbed the top of her head, chuckling at her disgruntled expression and her hands batting away at his. “It’s nothing, I was just thinking. Go back to sleep.”

 

Jackson rolled his eyes in the dark when Emmalyn sleepily murmured, “You think too much,” and waited for her breathing to return to its even pace. Slouching against his pillows, he tightened the grip of the arm wrapped around her stomach.

 

He smiled when he heard Emily Jane’s graceful footsteps outside his door, pausing to check on her youngest siblings and to say a quiet goodnight. He mouthed it in the darkness, and fell asleep.

 

In the woods, a bird of spring sang as the grass began to frost.


End file.
